


As the night dissolves (into this final frame)

by purple_cube



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post S8E3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-16 18:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18696523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: Three more times Arya goes to find Gendry.





	1. War-weary

 

 

 

Days after the end of the supposed end of the world, every fibre of her body still aches. It’s familiar, relentless, and frustrating all at the same time.

 

She knows that it’s the same for everyone who fought. She can see it in the way they move – too careful, too deliberate.

 

After, when the ice had shattered and the swirling wind abated, all she could see was the motionless dead and the almost equally motionless, exhausted living. She had raced through the remains of Winterfell, of _home_ , to tick off a list of a different kind. _Bran, Jon, Sansa_.

 

And _Gendry_. She knows that he had seen her from his half-seated, half-slumped position on one of the few remaining balconies of the courtyard. She had seen the way his eyes shone momentarily, relief fighting valiantly against exhaustion. By the time the remaining Unsullied had moved from in front of her, she had left the courtyard.

 

She saw him again when they cleared the Great Hall later that morning to give the survivors somewhere to rest. Somewhere where they didn’t have to look at the bodies. The weary living carried the lifeless dead, one by one, to the fields beyond the trench. Back and forth, on and on, until finally there was one space in Winterfell that didn’t hold the dead.  

 

She could still smell them though, as she sat and stared at Gendry from across the hall. There was no high table now, no lords and ladies and smallfolk. Only the living.

 

And he had stared right back, daring her to look away. Or maybe he was daring her to approach, to talk to him, to acknowledge him beyond being just another survivor. But she had been too tired – _oh so very tired_ – to play whatever game was meant to be played in this situation. A lady and a bastard under normal circumstances would be complicated enough, but she was no ordinary lady, and he was no ordinary bastard. Adding the fact that they’d just survived the end of the world, and she had been simply too exhausted to do anything other than sit and stare.

 

Finally, one by one, drowsy eyelids blinked shut and the Great Hall was silent but for the sound of gentle snoring.

 

And the next morning, he had stood a few feet behind her as the first of the funeral pyres were lit by dragon fire. Then more and more fire, as more bodies were ferried into the fields, until finally – _finally_ – there were no more dead in Winterfell.

 

~

 

Now, two days on, she can’t keep away any longer, and finds herself at the entrance to the forge once more. He is alone – dawn has only just broken and most inhabitants of the castle are still resting their weary bodies.

 

“You haven’t come to see me,” she says softly.

 

She doesn’t miss the involuntary smile that plays on his lips just before he looks up. But now his brow quickly furrows, telling her that she hasn’t managed to keep the even tone that she had practiced in her head.

 

“Lady Stark.”

 

She fights to hide the wince incited by his coldness. “That would be my sister.”

 

“Lady _Arya_ , then.”

 

And she remembers the last time that he had used her name, moments before she had kissed him. Perhaps he remembers too, because he turns his eyes away.

 

“You haven’t come to see me either,” he replies eventually, reaching for a hammer. He brings it down onto a would-be spearhead – once, twice, thrice.

 

He doesn’t see her shrug. “Been busy.”

 

“We all have,” he mutters between the hammering.

 

She approaches slowly, quietly, until she is close enough to reach for his hammer if she wanted to. “The other night,” she begins. “I want you to know why –“

 

“I know just fine,” he interrupts, not looking up from his bench. “You did it ‘cos you thought it was your last night in this world.”

 

“That was one reason.”

 

His movements falter now, but he still looks down. And then his lips press together, and he turns his upper body to reach the spearhead behind him and into the furnace.

 

After what seems like an eternity, he turns back to the bench – and back to her. “What was the other reason?”

 

Before she can answer, his eyes flick past her as another smith enters and walks behind her to retrieve some tools. She waits until they’re alone again. “Because I wanted to. Because I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

 

He regards her carefully, searching for _something_. She isn’t sure if he finds it, but he turns his attention back to his work regardless. “How long’s _‘a while’_?”

 

“Come see me tonight and I’ll tell you.” The invitation is accompanied by a smile that falters when he refuses to look up.

 

He still seems unsure, and a moment later she knows why. “I can’t be seen going into your chambers.”

 

The regret in his tone makes her think that that this isn’t _no_ – it’s just _not like that_. So instead, she asks, “Can I come and see you instead?”

 

His eyes finally meet hers – searching, she thinks, for a reason to say no. He must not find one, because he nods his head a moment later.

 

~

 

She knows that he has been moved to one of the rooms near the Bell Tower, a relatively undamaged part of the castle. She finds him sat on the edge of his bed, cleaning his boots. He only looks up when she deliberately lets the door shut behind her back with a soft click.

 

And then he smiles – the first smile he’s given her since before the battle. “You enjoy sneaking up on people?” he asks curiously.

 

She shrugs. “I enjoy applying my training.”

 

The grin fades. “I’ve heard a little about that. I’m sorry.”

 

Confused, she walks slowly across the room towards him. “Why are _you_ sorry?”

 

“You asked me to come to Winterfell with you. If I’d just done it –”

 

“Everything that happened brought us to where we are today,” she interrupts quickly. “ _We’re_ here. The Night King isn’t.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Everyone’s already thanked me,” she mutters, sitting down on the bed beside him. She’s more than a little uncomfortable with it all.

 

“ _I_ haven’t.”

 

She sighs. “You have now.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she watches him lower his boot and brush to the floor. And then they sit, side by side, both staring at the wall ahead.

 

He eventually repeats his earlier question. “How long’s ‘a while’?”

 

She smiles and thinks back to their time on the Kingsroad. “Before I even knew what it meant. And for a long time afterwards. And certainly when I saw you arrive in Winterfell on your horse. And when I came to the forge.”

 

He snorts in amusement. “Aye, I noticed that time.”

 

“I meant for you to notice that time,” she retorts.

 

“And I wasn’t the only one to notice. You should be more careful.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“I do.” He sighs. “This is just a fuck for you – and I’m fine with that. But at the end of the day, I’m still a bastard, fucking a lady of the house that has provided me with shelter.”

 

 _It’s not just a fuck_ , she thinks.

 

He turns to face her. “I like what I have here. With Ser Davos, with your brother – hell, even with the Hound. I don’t care who sits on the Iron Throne so long as they’re not trying to kill me. And if Daenerys was to find out who my father was, she probably _will_ want to kill me.”

 

She scoffs. “If she didn’t order the Kingslayer to be killed on sight, she’s not going to have you killed.”

 

She is greeted with a short shake of his head. “I’m not taking that chance.  I’m fine with staying a bastard. But it means…”

 

“It means people can’t find out about us,” she concludes. “Fine. I’ll be more careful.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

They sit side by side, in silence, for a while longer. The bravado that she had possessed that first night with him is all but gone, and as much as she wants him, she doesn’t want to be the one to make the first move this time. She wants – _needs_ – to know that he wants this too. That he wants _her_.

 

“I understand why you’re here,” he says after a while. “You want to feel alive. You want to do something that only the living can do.”

 

She wants to deny it, to tell him that it’s more than that. But if that is all that this means to him, then so be it.

 

So she doesn’t speak as he stands and turns to face her, clutching at the bottom of his shirt before pulling it over his head. His trousers come down next, and then finally, his undergarments. He steps out of them to one side and watches her as her eyes drink in the sight of him.

 

“Your turn,” he says with a lazy smile before sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

 

So she complies, taking her time as he holds her gaze as best as he can. When she’s done, she allows his eyes a moment to roam like she had done before approaching.

 

But she doesn’t sit. Instead, she kneels in front of him.

 

His widening eyes elicit a smile, and she watches him watch her as she leans forward. A kiss, first, at the very tip. And then she takes him into her mouth.

 

A whispered _fuck_ is quickly followed by a thud as his upper body sinks down onto the bed.

 

Training of a different kind kicks in here, from her days of hiding amongst the shadows of the brothels of Braavos.

 

The soft noises that fall from his mouth are reminiscent of that time – but this is different. This is _Gendry_ – and this is because of her.

 

A sharp grunt makes her pause, and she releases him with a moist _pop_.

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

He huffs. “ _Everything_ hurts. Doesn’t it hurt for you?”

 

As if on cue, her right knee throbs, and she shifts her weight to the other side. She had forgotten the pain, if only for a moment. “We can stop,” she says quietly before placing a soft kiss on his thigh. “I can wait.”

 

She watches the creases appear in his torso as he sits up onto his elbows. “Do _you_ want to stop? ‘Cos if you do –”

 

“No,” she quickly interrupts. “I want this.” _I want_ _you_.

 

He seems to think for a moment before sighing. “You can’t be comfortable down there.”

 

She glances down, ready to resume, but he quickly leans forward to place his hands on her sides.

 

“I want –“

 

“Next time,” he murmurs as he wraps his arms around her to pull her up and onto him. But he doesn’t let her straddle him like he had done last time, instead quickly turning them over.

 

“Were you trained to do that as well?” he asks quietly.

 

“Not exactly.”

 

He seems relieved. A moment later, he asks, “Do you know how a man may repay the debt?”

 

She had seen it a couple of times, so she nods, earning another smile.

 

“Good.”

 

She watches, half-sat up on her elbows, as he kisses his way down from her neck to her thighs. And then his mouth is where she needs it the most, making earnest inroads to meet the thirst that has steadily built up since he first began to undress.

 

He lets her lift her knees onto his shoulders, lets her grips his head in her hands – hell, he even speeds up every time she tightens her grip to urge him on. He may not have a way with words, but here, in this moment and in this way, he knows exactly what she is saying and how to reply.

 

His lips, tongue and, at one point, teeth work as tirelessly as he does in the forge – sucking, licking, nipping – until she falls apart beneath him with a loud gasp.

 

But the ache from deep within her is back a moment later, and she helps him make his way back up to her.

 

He pauses when she grips his forearms gently, raising his gaze in question. “It’s not just a fuck,” she admits quietly. “It never was.”

 

A small smile appears at his lips, betraying surprise and relief and delight all at the same time. But he doesn’t give her the time to question it, because in the next moment he is _there_ , pushing into her. Her body is more compliant this time, perhaps recalling the sweet pleasure that came from their joining the last time.

 

And now she understands why he said that _this_ is for the living – this pleasure, and yes, this pain as well.

 

“Gods,” he mutters, and she makes a mental note to ask him about that. But then he is moving – into her, out of her, above her – and she forgets about her notes, forgets about death and war and exhaustion. In this moment, there is only _them_ – and only _this_.

 

He rests his forehead on hers, eyes half-closed as they move together with a languid pace that they didn’t – couldn’t – afford the last time. It is so very different this time, but just as pleasurable, and much more suited to their war-weary bodies.

                                                    

She isn’t sure how long they move like that for. But minutes later, he sits up on knees, pulling her gently down the bed along with him so that he can stay inside her. Here, sprawled beneath him as his eyes roam reverently across her body, she thinks that she might feel vulnerable if he were somebody else.

 

He continues the gentle pace, in and out, and she wonders why he felt the need to shift positions. But then his fingers are _there_ , right where they were the first time he made her come – and her mind, heart, and core lurch like a horse startled. He is there, right where her fingers were when she first taught herself about this pleasure in Braavos, _his_ name swimming around in her mind.

 

But back then, she was no one, and the risk was too great for her to say his name out loud.

 

Now, she is Arya Stark once more, and Arya Stark is allowed a whisper at the very least. “Gendry.”

 

When she opens her eyes, she knows that he has heard because he’s looking at her like she’s the sun that chased away the long winter.

 

It’s almost too much to bear.

 

“Come here,” she beckons.

 

So he does, leaning forward to sink down onto her, enveloping all of her senses. All that she can see, hear, smell touch, taste is _him_.

 

She clutches at his shoulders as is pace intensifies. She knows that they won’t talk of love – not now, at any rate. Maybe not ever. But she needs him to know that this is more than just a fuck. She needs him to know that she _chose_ him.

 

She whispers his name again, watching carefully as his expression changes from surprise to ecstasy to relief as he spills into her.

 

A moment later, regret appears. “Shit,” he mutters, closing his eyes. It takes her a second to realise what he means. They hadn’t cared last time, not when they thought that they were going to die within hours. This time though, this time there had been talk of _you should be more careful_ and _I can wait_. And a _next time_.

 

She shakes her head. “It’s okay. It’s not the right time in my cycle.”

 

He seems confused, and she realises that he probably knows little about _flowering_ as her mother had called it a lifetime ago when she left Winterfell for King’s Landing.

 

“Women only become pregnant at certain times of the month. It’s not my time.”

 

He shrugs as exhaustion seems to visibly take control of his body. “Oh.”

 

She helps him onto his side and onto the mattress, his eyes closing before his head even hits the pillow. Now, she can watch him sleep – a luxury that she couldn’t afford herself the first time.

 

She had slipped away before he awoke then, and plans to do so again. But the hitch in her breathing as she prepares to move is enough to make him stir.

 

She stills, waiting for him to settle again. A few minutes later, she turns onto her side, ready to slide from the bed – but the mattress shifts from movement that isn’t hers.

 

She glances down as is fingers clasp her forearm – softly enough that she could pull away if she truly wanted to, but strong enough to betray a sense of panic. He leans closer to place a soft kiss on her shoulder.

 

“Stay.” Her eyes flicker up to meet his unwavering gaze. “Please.”

 

So she does.


	2. Battle-ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-season 8, episode 4.

 

 

 

The exhaustion is slow to melt, much like the snow outside the castle walls. But melt it does. A week passes before Arya can rise from her bed without her limbs protesting. And another week passes before a degree of sharpness returns to her actions as she trains.

 

But two weeks is all they have, all Daenerys will permit them before they begin their journey south. House Stark and what remains of their bannermen have agreed to fight for the Dragon Queen in exchange for a free North once the war is won. The Knights of the Vale will shortly set off for the Kingsroad on the same promise. Their numbers are still nowhere near high enough, not now that the Golden Company has arrived in Westeros, but Daenerys is confident that her dragons will help raise their odds.

 

And now the Queen – and everyone else – knows the true power of another weapon that they possess. The Faceless Man who walks among them. Within the Council, the puzzled looks that previously greeted Arya’s presence have been replaced with admiration, but elsewhere, she sees apprehension.

 

“You’re not just an executioner, you know,” Sansa tells her as they watch over the gathering of food supplies in the courtyard, one of many preparations necessary for the long journey south. “You’re a saviour.”

 

“I didn’t do it to be a hero,” she says quietly. “I did it to save Bran.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she sees Sansa turn to her. “The pack survived, Arya. Because of you.”

 

She glances up at her sister. “And now it’s your turn.” She knows of Sansa’s meetings with Jon, Daenerys, and Tyrion – and she approves. Perhaps between them, her siblings can prevent the mistakes that led to Cersei gaining the upper hand before the Night King broke through the Wall.

 

Sansa nods. Not just an agreement, but also a promise. “We’ll survive this, too.”

 

~

 

The final day in Winterfell is long and frenetic for all. They know deep down that they are not as prepared as they would be want to be for this _Last War_. But this is all they have – these fighters and these weapons – and the defeat of the Night King has given the Northerners a sense of hope that Arya has seldom witnessed before.

 

So no one bats an eyelid when she requests that as many as personal quarters as possible have a hot bath available at close to midnight. Including Gendry’s.

 

He all but stumbles into the room not long after the servant leaves. Arya slips out of the shadows as his head thuds against the back of the door.

 

“Why’s it so warm in here?” he asks with closed eyes. He can’t have seen her, and yet, she knows that he is addressing her.

 

“Sansa and I asked for baths in all rooms. We need everyone to be as rested as possible for tomorrow.”

 

One eye quirks open in amusement. “But this could be our last night in this world.”

 

“It could be,” she agrees, grinning at his use of _her_ words. “So what is it that you would like to try before you die?”

 

His eyes flicker behind her to the bath. “That. With you.”

 

She glances behind before nodding in agreement. Their movements are unhurried as they each undress themselves, a familiar ritual now. He gestures for her to take the lead, so she turns and steps into the tub first, turning back in time to watch appreciatively as he approaches.

 

The water has cooled more than she would like, but is pleasant nonetheless, and she knows he has been in the smithy since dawn. Regardless of the temperature, it will help to soothe his aching bones to lie here if only for a few minutes.

 

He’s been staring at her since they sat down, trying to work something out, and after a moment she returns his gaze with a quirked eyebrow.

 

“You’re nervous,” he states with surprise.

 

“I’m…thinking. About the war.”

 

She is met with a confused shrug of the shoulders. “We survived the army of the dead. If we can do that, we can survive Cersei Lannister.”

 

He clearly expects her to agree, and her shake of the head only serves to confuse him more. “My father didn’t survive the Lannisters,” she responds quietly.

 

“Neither did mine,” he says, though not unkindly. “But _I_ did. Ser Davos told me about the other bastards, about how they were killed by the City Watch.  No one knows how many bastards Robert had. But they’re all sure I’m the only one left.”

 

“And you,” he begins before leaning forward to reach for her hand. “You survived them – plus a hell of a lot more.”

 

She glances down at her hand clasped within his – one a weapon in itself, the other working tirelessly to arm their bare bones of an army. “ _Brown eyes…blue eyes…green eyes. Eyes that I would shut forever_.” She looks up at him. “That’s what the Red Woman said to me. _In that order_. And there is only one person left on my list with green eyes. _I_ will be the one to kill Cersei.”

 

He nods solemnly. “Aye, I’m sure you will. So what are you worried about?”

 

“Because this isn’t just another battle for me. Another kill. This is about ending my list.”

 

He nods again, this time in encouragement. “And?”

 

“It’s _after_ that thinking about. I don’t know what will happen _after_. All I’ve known for so long now if my list.”

 

“Well, what do picture when you think of _after_? After you’ve killed Cersei, after the Last War is over and the North is free. What happens then?”

 

“I’ve never let myself think it,” she says quietly, staring into the water. “Not ever.”

 

His hand reaches up to cradle her jaw – and to make her look at him. “Then think about it now. What do you see?”

 

“My family,” she begins. “Jon. Sansa. Bran.” She looks around the room. “Winterfell – there will be a lot to rebuild. And across the North.”

 

She swallows before meeting his unyielding gaze. “And you. If you see it too.”

 

His smile is the only answer she needs – that, and the way his lips reach for hers.

 

She forgets the coolness of the water as he pulls her into his lap. As always, his touch lights a fire inside her, chasing away everything – every other sight and sound and thought – until there is only him.

 

“We shouldn’t do this in the water,” he murmurs against her neck.

 

Her eyes are closed. “Then where?”

 

“Follow me.”

 

She lets him lead her out of the water, lets him towel her down, and lets him take her hand to walk them across the room to the long chair in the corner. “Haven’t used this before,” he says, smiling as he turns.

 

But she doesn’t let him sit. Instead, she brushes past him to kneel on the seat, still facing the wall. Her look over her shoulder is rewarded with a huff of laughter. “Are you sure?” he asks, disbelieving. “This isn’t what I’d expect a _lady_ to like.”

 

She nods, happy to see him step closer. “Can’t think why,” she begins, before gasping when his body comes up flush against hers, his cock sliding between her rear cheeks. “The women that I’ve seen thoroughly enjoyed it.”

 

He groans against her shoulder. “One day, you’re gonna to have to tell me more about what you’ve seen.”

 

She starts to speak, but he shifts and she feels him at her entrance, awaiting her permission. She lowers herself back and onto him, revelling in the way that his moan reverberates through her hair, and seemingly through her mind.

 

He encourages her to lean forward so that can lift a knee onto the chair, and the change in angle brings on an entirely new sensation. And now she understands why those women enjoyed this position so much, why it brought sounds and declarations from their lips that lying flat on their backs didn’t.

 

“Fuck,” she whispers as her head drops onto her arm braced on the back of the chair.

 

“Tryin’ my best,” he replies between scattered breaths, making her smile.

 

Then he does what she wants him to – what she saw in the brothels – and reaches a hand forward  from her waist to where she needs that pressure. Her hand quickly covers his, and together they move as she guides his pace until that ever tightening coil finally snaps deep inside her. His low groan matches hers as her muscles pulsate around him.

 

His hand stills as she descends, though the smallest of movements continue inside her, as though he can’t quite bring himself to pause completely. When she’s finally ready, she leans back against him. He understands her signal, quickly wrapping his free arm around her waist and steadily increasing the depth and pace of his thrusts.

 

And then his fingers are moving again – teasing, coaxing, _daring_ her to climb the highest of heights once more. His other hand moves up to cover her mouth when she starts to squeeze around his cock, and she bites down a little harder than she plans to when she comes.

 

He responds in kind, teeth sinking into her shoulder as that now familiar warmth fills her.

 

The room is silent but for the sounds of rapid breathing, in sync as his chest heaves against her spine. Her head tilts back to rest against his shoulder, and he kisses her temple with a tenderness that seems at odds with what they’ve just done, with his cock still inside her and her shoulder throbbing from his bite. _But maybe this is who they are_ , she thinks. Ferocity and affection and impulse and pragmatism, all at the same time.

 

“I want you to stay alive,” she says once her breathing slows. An instruction more than anything.

 

She feels him nod and tighten his grip on her waist. “I want you to stay alive, too.”

 

 

 


End file.
